register at the store?”
He shook his head. “Not much. In fact, less than I thought.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t want to say anything. Implicate anyone. But . . .”
“But what?”
Prarash sniffed his fingers. “There seemed to be a bit of money missing at the end of the day.”
“That’s impossible,” my mother said, reclasping her overalls. “You and Roberto were the only ones in the store all day. We didn’t have a single customer.”
“Exactly,” Prarash said, sniffing again. The double-sniff. A bad sign. My mother stared at him.
“It is not for a humble believer such as I to cast aspersions. Merely to sit and absorb as the world unfolds.”
“Stan!” my mother called, as I slammed the door. And even though it closed, with a satisfying clunk, I could still hear Prarash chuckle and say, “Teenagers.”
I was an hour early. Keith was behind the counter, halfway through a box of Twizzlers.
“Whoa!” he said. “Check out
GQ.
”
I had on a shirt with buttons. And cuffs. And a collar.
“I’ve got a date,” I said.
“You better.” He laughed.
“How’s business?”
He raised an eyebrow and scowled, pointing a Twizzler at me, which bent in the center and then was actually pointing at the
Horror
section.
“You didn’t actually just ask me
how business was,
did you?”
“Umm . . .”
“Stan, Stan,
Stan
. . . you’ve gotta get your chops together. Are you going to say
ludicrously dull
things like that on this date of yours?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
Keith swiveled in his chair and came around the counter. He adjusted my collar, fluffed my hair, and then made me stand with my hips pointed out.
“That’s better. Now repeat after me: I am confident.”
“I am confident.”
“I am in control.”
“I am in control”.
“I am one bad mutha.”
“I don’t want to say that.”
“Fine,” he said, going back to his chair and opening a ZAGNUT, “if that’s the way you want to play it. But just remember that your old buddy Keith was giving stud lessons before your father was born.”
“Keith, you’re thirty-five,” I said. “That means you were giving lessons to other zygotes.”
“My point exactly,” he said, licking toasted coconut off his fingers. “What’s a zygote?”
“Well, okay,” I said, “let’s start with mitosis . . .”
Keith’s chair creaked. Bolt failure seemed imminent. “Let’s not.”
“All right, all right,” I said, holding up my paycheck. “Can you cash this for me instead?”
Keith glared. “How do I know it’s good?”
I showed him the seal of Happy Video. I showed him the address of the store. I showed him his signature.
He shook his head. “Sorry, looks forged.”
“Seriously,” I said. “I have, like, no money.”
Keith popped the register and shrugged. “We got, like, eight bucks in here. It’s been deader than Mick Jagger tonight.”
“Mick Jagger’s alive,” I said.
Keith nodded, as if that proved his point. He stood and shoved a big ham-fist into his pocket. “Here. You can borrow this.”
I held out my palm. He filled it with nickels and lint.
“Wow. Great. Must be at least a dollar twenty.”
“No problemo,” Keith said, and popped open a Snickers.
On the way out, I picked up a couple of things off the floor and straightened a few movie boxes. At the door Keith said, “Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Knock her socks off.”
Miles pulled up fifteen minutes later. Cari was in the front seat and Ellen was waiting in the back.
“Hi,” I said, sliding in.
“Hey, Stan,” Cari said.
“Nice shirt, Mr. Blackwell,” Miles said.
Ellen gave me a little wave that said she was still singed by her time in the Fry Mobile. She was wearing a white sweater (low-cut), jeans (tight), and makeup (lots). She looked totally different. I put off trying to decide how much I liked it or not.
“Listen, I am so,
so
sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, squeezing my elbow.
He shook his head. “Not much. In fact, less than I thought.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t want to say anything. Implicate anyone. But . . .”
“But what?”
Prarash sniffed his fingers. “There seemed to be a bit of money missing at the end of the day.”
“That’s impossible,” my mother said, reclasping her overalls. “You and Roberto were the only ones in the store all day. We didn’t have a single customer.”
“Exactly,” Prarash said, sniffing again. The double-sniff. A bad sign. My mother stared at him.
“It is not for a humble believer such as I to cast aspersions. Merely to sit and absorb as the world unfolds.”
“Stan!” my mother called, as I slammed the door. And even though it closed, with a satisfying clunk, I could still hear Prarash chuckle and say, “Teenagers.”
I was an hour early. Keith was behind the counter, halfway through a box of Twizzlers.
“Whoa!” he said. “Check out
GQ.
”
I had on a shirt with buttons. And cuffs. And a collar.
“I’ve got a date,” I said.
“You better.” He laughed.
“How’s business?”
He raised an eyebrow and scowled, pointing a Twizzler at me, which bent in the center and then was actually pointing at the
Horror
section.
“You didn’t actually just ask me
how business was,
did you?”
“Umm . . .”
“Stan, Stan,
Stan
. . . you’ve gotta get your chops together. Are you going to say
ludicrously dull
things like that on this date of yours?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
Keith swiveled in his chair and came around the counter. He adjusted my collar, fluffed my hair, and then made me stand with my hips pointed out.
“That’s better. Now repeat after me: I am confident.”
“I am confident.”
“I am in control.”
“I am in control”.
“I am one bad mutha.”
“I don’t want to say that.”
“Fine,” he said, going back to his chair and opening a ZAGNUT, “if that’s the way you want to play it. But just remember that your old buddy Keith was giving stud lessons before your father was born.”
“Keith, you’re thirty-five,” I said. “That means you were giving lessons to other zygotes.”
“My point exactly,” he said, licking toasted coconut off his fingers. “What’s a zygote?”
“Well, okay,” I said, “let’s start with mitosis . . .”
Keith’s chair creaked. Bolt failure seemed imminent. “Let’s not.”
“All right, all right,” I said, holding up my paycheck. “Can you cash this for me instead?”
Keith glared. “How do I know it’s good?”
I showed him the seal of Happy Video. I showed him the address of the store. I showed him his signature.
He shook his head. “Sorry, looks forged.”
“Seriously,” I said. “I have, like, no money.”
Keith popped the register and shrugged. “We got, like, eight bucks in here. It’s been deader than Mick Jagger tonight.”
“Mick Jagger’s alive,” I said.
Keith nodded, as if that proved his point. He stood and shoved a big ham-fist into his pocket. “Here. You can borrow this.”
I held out my palm. He filled it with nickels and lint.
“Wow. Great. Must be at least a dollar twenty.”
“No problemo,” Keith said, and popped open a Snickers.
On the way out, I picked up a couple of things off the floor and straightened a few movie boxes. At the door Keith said, “Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Knock her socks off.”
Miles pulled up fifteen minutes later. Cari was in the front seat and Ellen was waiting in the back.
“Hi,” I said, sliding in.
“Hey, Stan,” Cari said.
“Nice shirt, Mr. Blackwell,” Miles said.
Ellen gave me a little wave that said she was still singed by her time in the Fry Mobile. She was wearing a white sweater (low-cut), jeans (tight), and makeup (lots). She looked totally different. I put off trying to decide how much I liked it or not.
“Listen, I am so,
so
sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, squeezing my elbow.
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